


Forward, men of Wesnoth!

by Zaravan



Category: Battle For Wesnoth (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Genre Shift, Or in which Underfell gets it's shit slapped, Player is a savescumming bastard, Player values the lives of his Veteran Units and is willing to cheese RNG to save their lives, Possible Temporary Character Death, RNG will also play a huge factor in fights, Said RNG is unusually cruel to all, Underfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaravan/pseuds/Zaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The player congratulated himself on the completion of another scenario. It took a lot of quickloading, but he'd managed to keep all his men alive.'</p><p>'He took a sip of his lemonade as the next scenario loaded, it was taking a while.'</p><p>'When it finished, the first thing his screen showed was a patch of golden flowers. A familiar patch of golden flowers.'</p><p>'He choked on his lemonade, and began to cough until his eyes blurred with tears.'</p><p>This was not supposed to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The player congratulated himself as he finished the scenario, it'd taken a lot of quickloading, but he'd managed to keep all his men alive.

 

And so, he clicked on the button to finish and proceed to the next mission. 

 

...

 

The Player was getting impatient, it  _never_ took this long to load, it had been almost five minutes. He'd worried that it had frozen, but a bit of waiting had shown that the bar  _was_ moving. Albeit at a snail's pace.

 

With a huff, the Player stood and decided to get himself a drink.

 

One packet of pink lemonade, and one bottle of water later, the Player was swigging his cold drink as he stepped back to his computer. Thankfully it seems to have finished loading.

 

When the Player did look at said screen, he began to choke and cough on his drink. Small droplets of lemonade dampening his shirt as he fought for air.

 

After a moment had passed, he'd coughed his airways open and had taken several deep breathes to compensate.

 

He rubbed his eyes as, despite his glasses and the fact it was right in front of him, he could not comprehend what he was seeing.

 

It was a patch of golden flowers, a familiar patch of golden flowers.

 

And in the middle of that patch of flowers, was a small child.

 

Frisk.

 

What did not make sense however, was the General standing next to them.

HP: 60/60 XP:217/250  Abilities: Leadership

 

His General. Nor that it was that the environment was also in a Hex based grid.

 

The Player slowly set down his lemonade, he slowly dragged his cursor over his Leader. Then he right-clicked.

 

It seems he could recall some of his Veterans.

 

Two clicks and a Longbowman and a Halberdier popped into existence besides the General.

   

HP: 55/55 XP: 75/90

HP: 80/80 XP: 201/250

 

 

Nice. Now he just had to start his turn-

 

Did Frisk just move.

 

_Did Frisk just move out of turn!?_


	2. 'The Child we must protect with our lives men! Damn us all if we cannot do so!'

Frisk had gone right ahead with little care, the Player had seen them look back at his men before quickly running away.

 

The Player was stunned at this. First was that Frisk had  _moved as if in Undertale_ , and not by turns. Second, however, it seemed that his Units were still stuck with grid-based movement. Joy.

 

The scenario objective box popped up.

 

**_Objective:_ **

**_-Keep the Child alive._ **

**_Failure:_ **

**_-The Child is killed._ **

**_-Your Leader is killed._ **

 

 

Well, that seemed simple enough, and it seemed that his movement points had been tripled, at least he could keep up.

 

He hoped so.

 

The Player decided to hire more help incase of anything going horribly wrong. So with a few clicks, the Player hired two Spearmen.

x2

HP: 36/36 XP 0/42

 

And so the Player shuffled his Units as far along as he could each turn. It wasn't long before he'd caught up with Frisk.

 

And, as the Player noted while narrowing his eyes, a mutual 'friend'.

 

Flowey the Flower. Flowey however, did not look his usual smug, murderous self. His pedals were torn, his stem bent and expression one of a child who cowers from a drunken, abusive parent.

 

A cold pit formed in the Player's stomach as he realized what this meant. His brow wrinkled while a scowl broke across his face.

 

UNDERFELL

 

Even as Flowey implored Frisk to get out of the underground, even as the Player's Units shuffled slowly around Frisk in a protective formation, Frisk, Flowey and the Player all heard the shuffling of large feet.

 

Flowey began to panic, begging them to hide. Yet Frisk simply stood, steadfast. And Flowey fled.

 

Seeing Frisk in the open filled the player with CONCERN, and he shuffled his Units closer together to protect the Fallen Child.

 

He did not expect Frisk to break away and go  _towards_ the shuffling feet.

 

The Player grit his teeth in frustration as he realized he could not follow, for he was out of movement points for this turn. He cursed.

 

Even as he clicked for the next turn, he could hear a voice drift from the next room. Thus followed by two pairs of feet shuffling away.

 

The Player ground his teeth until it became painful.

 

The Psychotic Queen of the Ruins had the Child. 

 


	3. Frantic Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combat in Battle for Wesnoth is decided by a number of factors including: Weapon type, Unit Class, Physical and Magic resistance, and accuracy.
> 
> All boiling down to a certain percentage to hit. In this, whether or not a Unit can land all their hits, or dodge the enemy's attacks are the difference between life and death.
> 
> And it's all up to fate.

[Battle for Wesnoth OST- Frantic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RJq3s4JqrU)

_**Objective:** _

_**-Rescue the Child from the Queen of the Ruins** _

_**Failure:** _

_**-The Child dies.** _

_**-** **Your** **leader dies.** _

 

The Player grit his teeth as he pushed his men as far as they could go every turn, it seemed that no time passed between turns. This was a fact that the Player was thankful for, he had to catch up to the Child and the Mad Queen of the Ruins.

 

He had also taken the opportunity to hire three Calvalrymen.

x3

HP: 34/34 XP: 0/40

 

They were fast, and fast was what the Player needed in order to clear the way for the rest of the company.

 

It was the third room when the Player encountered the first hostile monster.

 

It was a Froggit that much was obvious, but it looked as if it were permanently scowling it's skin rough and scarred, and the Player could see it making aggressive movements towards two Whimsums. They hadn't seemed to be all that different, save for wearing what might pass for armor mad of scraps of cloth.

 

The Froggit seemed to be trying to extort the Whimsums, and as the Player notes, that the Froggit's 'paws' were covered in dust. 

 

It was quite possible that a third Whimsum had been made an example of. 

  
  
The Player frowned, before moving two Spearmen adjacent to the small amphibian thug.

 

To it's credit, the Froggit was quick to realize that it was about to be assailed, and so turning toward one of the Spearmen, blasted him twice with a magic attack.

 

Both attacks connected.

 

_**19** _

 

_**19** _

 

As the Spearman let out his death knell, the Player was gobsmacked at the raw damage a simple Froggit had dealt.

 

As he ordered his Spearman and Longbowman to attack, he chewed his lip. Could it be that, as this is Underfell, that any enemies he encountered would be far more dangerous for his men, and by extension, the child, because most monsters embraced the 'kill or be killed' philosophy that the original Flowey spouted? And now thus, whoever was left had gained quite a bit of **Execution Points**. 

 

This was a problem.

 

Under the combined attacks of the Spearman and the Longbowman, the Froggit crumbled to dust.

 

The Whimsums were too terrified to speak, but when they realized that they had been saved, they were quick to flee.

 

The Player could not tarry, he had to push toward the ruins of Home. 

 

He could only pray that Frisk was safe.

 

 


	4. 'We must lay siege to Home!'  'But sir! There's no door!'  'Oh.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the first Tiers, T0 to T1. The Player only has access to Units such as Peasants and Bowmen. The only hope that a Player can have for helping their Units gain enough experience to evolve into stronger, sturdier units; Is to throw as many men into the grinder as possible, then praying that whoever comes out alive will be all the stronger for it.

Several rooms later and the Player was beginning to get just a  _little_ bit frustrated.

 

For one, quite a few monsters, including Loox and Vegetoids, were far stronger than their counterparts.

 

The Player's company had taken several casualties in the process of slugging their way towards the lair of the Mad Queen.

 

The good news was, for one, that the Player had taken the opportunity to hire several Mages.

x3

HP: 24/24 XP: 0/54

 

As well as a Heavy Infantryman.

HP: 40/40 XP: 0/40

 

Second was that the Player's General had gained enough experience to evolve into the Unit's next Tier.

 

**The Grand Marshal**

HP: 90/90 XP: 0/300

 

 

With these victories under his belt, the Player was reasonably confident that, if it came down to it, he would be able to defeat the Mad Queen.

 

The Mad Queen.

 

The Player refused to call her by her name, viewing her as a mockery, a twisted and sick parody of the loving mother that he and many others knew her as.

 

His lips pursed and his eyes hard, the Player moved his men to the entrance to Home.

 

And, he had to admit, it was a little pitiful.

 

Somehow, the massive tree that acted as a centerpiece for the room seemed even more withered and frail.

 

The House itself looked cold and devoid of love. One could clearly see a number of thin cracks spread throughout the surface of the building.

 

The Player quickly saved his game, before ordering the Marshal first into the quiet, abandoned house.

 

It did not seem anyone was home.

 

The fire in the hearth was slowly dying. Books were left to gather dust and cobwebs. The kitchen looked as if it had hardly seen use.

 

Two Mages sent into the Queen's bedroom revealed nothing of interest besides a journal filled with mad ramblings that resembled chicken scratch. As well as the occasional tasteless joke that leaves the disgusting flavor of vomit in one's mouth.

 

There was not a soul in either bedroom. The Player swallowed as he realized what this meant.

 

He moved his men downstairs, with the Grand Marshal at the helm.

 

He could already hear the familiar tune of 'Heartache'.

 

But it was twisted, the rhythm just slightly off in that maddening way from which one simply _feels_ how something is terrible wrong.

 

As the Player's company rounded the corner, he set his jaw as he gazed upon the scene.

 

The Queen was laughing in a broken, insane manner as she flung balls of flame without care, scorching the ground, the walls, even the ceiling.

 

Frisk was desperately trying to scramble out of the way of the waves of heat. By the burns that showed on their stomach and shoulder, they were not entirely successful.

 

Seeing the Child harmed filled the Player with an indescribable _**rage.**_

 

It was with little hesitation that he ordered the Marshal to slash at the Mad Queen.

 

Three of four hits connected, and the Queen reeled from the pain, not having expected an attack from any other due to concentrating solely on Frisk.

 

A Mage attacked her with what could best be described as a shotgun blast of raw magic.

 

The Queen, burned by the magic attack, screeched in rage and, turning towards the offender, blasted the Mage out of existence with a concentrated blast of flame 

 

_**-50** _

 

The Player nervously sipped a bottle of water as he realized he had to take her down before the Queen simply burned his company alive with raw attack power.

 

A Calvalryman slashed open a would across the Queen's chest, and in retaliation she turned him to ash.

 

The Heavy Infantryman bashed her in the back of the skull with his mace, and she fell to her knees.

 

As a Spearman tried to strike a killing blow, he was turned to cinders by the enraged Monarch.

 

 

The Grand Marshall gave the Queen several new wounds, and she responded by blasting away most of his health. Another hit would kill him.

 

As the Queen struggled to her knees, she began to laugh. And she began to summon a massive wave of flame above her, should she finish casting, the Player's company and Frisk would all turn to ash.

 

The Player ground his teeth and hovered his cursor over the Load button.

 

The Player did not expect the Queen to suddenly make choking noises mid-cackle. Her eyes were stretched wide with shock as she fell to her knees.

 

Even as she turned to dust, she mumbled the names of her children.

 

When she was but a small pile, the Player saw Frisk, standing behind here. They were holding the fallen Calvalryman's shortsword.

 

They began to quietly sob.

 

The Marshal began to automatically move next to Frisk, as in a cutscene. 

 

A small dialogue box appeared at the bottom of the Player's screen. Giving two options.

 

_**-Comfort them.** _

 

_**-Leave them be.** _

 

 ****It was obvious what the Player chose, and he was thus treated to the sight of the Marshal embracing Frisk as they buried their face into his chest, tears running down the Child's face.


	5. The one where the Player nearly smashes his screen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most scenarios in Battle for Wesnoth must be completed within a set number of turns, any halfway competent commander however, will be able to finish with time to spare.

_**Objective** _

_**-Exit the Ruins.** _

_**Failure** _

_**-The Child dies.** _

_**-Your Leader dies.** _

 

The Player knew what lay beyond the door.

 

 ** _Him._** The Judge.

 

But would the Judge play the downbeaten coward, or the unrelenting sadist?

 

The Player Saved his game here, as he Recalled one of his most sacred assets.

 

**A Mage of Light.**

HP: 47/47 XP: 85/150 Abilities: Heals +8, Illuminates, Cures Poison

 

As the Mage of Light took a space next to Frisk, so did the wounded of the Player's company gather around him in adjacent spaces.

 

The Mage tended to Frisk's wounds as several turns passed, and so did the wounded who gathered around him heal.

 

For the very presence of the Mage of Light was enough to heal grievous wounds.

 

When wounds had been tended, and the company rallied, Frisk, who had long thrown away the dust-stained sword in disgust, held themselves close to the Grand Marshal.

 

The Player, once more, saved his game just in case.

 

And so he ordered the company, along with the Child, to exit the Ruins.

 

Thus was shown a small patch of grass, illuminated by sunlight. In the middle stood Flowey.

 

The abused flower admitted that, though he feared the Mad Queen greatly, he was also terribly saddened by her death.

 

But, as he notes, he is grateful for the company rescuing a number of weaker monsters from being turned to dust.

 

Flowey also expressed his condolences for the Queen's fiery annihilation of several of the company.

 

Before he pulls himself underground, Flowey halfheartedly wishes that there was a way so that noone has to die.

 

But he berates himself, before reciting that 'It's kill or be killed', though it's clear that he doesn't believe it.

 

And so, he departs.

 

The Player saves, one more time, his paranoia rising slightly.

 

As the Marshal and the Fallen child exit the Ruins, they are greeted by a light snowfall, and the start of a long path to Snowdin.

 

They both make it five steps before they are erased from existence by an overwhelming blast of magic. 

 

The Player sits there, his expression akin to a suffocating goldfish as the screen is grayed out to communicate his failure.

 

He sits there for about five minutes, quiet and still.

 

He Loads.

 

This time, the first out of the Ruins are two Mages and a Cavalryman.

 

One mage is annihilated by a blast of magic, while the other Mage and the Cavalryman continue to move down the path.

 

As a wave of bones crash into the Cavalryman, sending rider and beast toppling over with a gurgled yell as they die, about five Spearmen and three Bowmen file out of the Ruins.

HP: 33/33 XP: 39/39

 

By now, the Mage has caught up with the dark shape, standing in front of the bride bordered by an ineffectual gate.

 

It is the Judge, with a sadistic grin inlaid with a single gold tooth, the Cruel Judge begins to open his mouth as he Player moves the Mage next to him, no doubt to give some crude insult.

 

He is interrupted when the Mage attempts to blast him with magic, as expected he dodges easily, but the Player notes that he is clearly shaken that a human was using magic.

 

The Cruel Judge tries to regain his composure, quipping that it was rude to great a new pal like this.

 

The Player simply narrows his eyes, and advances the mixed squad of Spearmen and Bowmen.

 

The Cruel Judge makes to attack the Mage, but his eyes widen when he spots the group of humans advancing, along with the rest of the company beginning to file out of the ruins behind them.

 

With the human's numbers growing with every passing second, the Cruel Judge decides that discretion is the better part of valor, and he simply ceases to exist from that spot. Do doubt having teleported away.

 

As the rest of the company exits the Ruins, the Marshal and Frisk are among the last to emerge.

 

Frisk, as the player notes, seems to be enthralled by the quiet, ethereal beauty of the Snowdin forest.

 

The Player saves his game.


	6. 'Curse that child's curiosity!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon gathering enough experience to evolve to the next Tier, Units will be fully healed. Used properly, this can be a lifesaver, or even turn the tide of the entire battle.

The Player needed to pee. Really badly, actually.

 

He chewed his lip as he thought. He'd need to go quickly while Frisk was occupied staring at the environment.

 

Of course, one trip later, and the as the Player sat back down, he recoiled as if physically struck.

 

Frisk had wandered off, because of  _course_ they had.

 

And, of course, the Player could hear loud, angry yelling.

 

The Player clenched his teeth, sucked in a deep breath, and so letting out a sigh of frustration, moved his troops forward.

 

Of course, it wasn't a minute before the company had caught up with two distinctive figures.

 

One was Frisk, the other was obvious, even as a twisted parody.

 

Tall and with skull set in a perpetual scowl, the Vain Boneguard leered over Frisk, his hands on his hips, his chest thrust out and his gaze angled downward upon the child.

 

His stance imposing, his attitude radiating utter self-confidence.

 

He only looked upwards when he heard the crunching footfalls of many, many beings.

 

It was obvious by the sweat that immediately graced his skull that the Vain Boneguard did not expect an entire company of armed humans.

 

Though even with his confidence undermined, and his faith in himself shaken, the Boneguard stood his ground, and launched into what he himself must have thought a long and well put together speech of his imminent success, and subsequent rise to power as Captain of the Royal Guard.

 

With his speech beginning to stutter as he took in just how many armed and armored humans there were, the Vain Boneguard beat a hasty retreat no sooner that he had finished speaking.

 

And so, it was quiet.

 

The Player Saved.

 

Though Frisk seemed uncertain, they drifted towards the Grand Marshal's side.

 

The Player decided to expand his company further, having seen that raw numbers had discouraged the Vain Boneguard from attacking, perhaps his company would go unopposed by the average monster should his forces grow large enough.

 

With the ease of a few clicks of the mouse, the player hired two Swordsmen.

HP: 55/55 XP 0/60

And a Sergeant.

HP: 32/32 XP: 0/32


	7. 'We march to Snowdin, men! Now make haste!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Race of Humans in Wesnoth are divided into two major factions of the several that make constant war in the land.
> 
> First are the Lawful soldiers who, serve the long standing kingdom known as the Loyalists. They are a well balanced army of Infantry, archers, and mages whose units gain a damage bonus when fighting during the day.
> 
> Second is the Chaotic faction known, collectively, as the Outlaws. They consist mostly of fast moving, but weak skirmishers, hard hitting Infantry, and archers who can cloak themselves while moving through forests. However, they lack Calvary and Mages.

The Player's company was able to move forward with little trouble, save for a bitter, scarred Snowdrake.

 

While Snowdrake was able to let out three attacks of what resembled a spinning blade, luck herself smiled upon the Grand Marshal, who was leading the company, and he dodged all three.

 

The retaliating wave of several volleys of arrows and magic, flew towards Snowdrake, who looked as if his very life was flashing before his eyes.

 

 

He didn't seem to be very satisfied with his life, so far.

 

In a twist of fate that seemed absolutely miraculous, every arrow, javelin, and magic blast completely missed.

 

The Player, in a frustrated outburst, smashed his fist several times on his desk, before quickly regretting it and trying not to cry out in pain.

 

Snowdrake however, fled at speeds faster than one might think a monster of his size might fly. 

 

He would later resolve, due to his near death experience, to never attack another unprovoked.

 

And so, after the Player had let his hand settle from the pain, the company moved forward with Frisk in tow.

 

The Brothers were just ahead, past a crossroads which had it's southern path blocked off, and from which Frisk had found a small, dubiously stained glove in a box.

 

The Brothers did several takes, before the Vain Boneguard abruptly stopped and loudly chastised his brother, the Cruel Judge.

 

The Cruel Judge simply stood there, occasionally interjecting with half-assed apologies that clearly held no merit.

 

After a minute of pointless one-sided arguing, the Cruel Judge redirected his superior's attention to the large group of armed Humans, and one child.

 

With one last glare, the Vain Boneguard turned his attentions from his brother toward the company.

 

With a flourish, the Vain Boneguard, as such declared that no matter how many humans there were, that they would be defeated and he would take his position as Captain.

 

The Vain Boneguard paused, clearly waiting for a response.

 

Two minutes of absolute silence pass as both brothers become more and more unnerved by the quiet staring of the human company, not one besides Frisk even seems to breathe.

 

Finally, the Vain Boneguard lets out an awkward, forced cough. Before quickly letting out a loud, triumphant laugh. One that had little heart behind it.

 

The taller brother was the first to leave in the opposite direction, with the Cruel Judge following behind slowly, while casting glances behind himself.

 

Frisk shifted slowly, trying to keep warm in the cold.

 

The Player downed a bottle of water.

 

The company moved forward, again, with Frisk by the Marshal's side.

 

It was with little fanfare that the Blind Rouge's station was passed, though loyal enough to Guard and King, the dirty and scarred Canine knew he was beaten as he heard the marching of many, _many_  heavy feet, alongside the smell of polished steel.

 

He growled and sat at the bottom of his station as the column of armored boots marched past. When the orchestra of noise faded, the Blind Rouge lit another dog treat, calming himself as the smell filled his booth.

 

He wasn't paid enough to deal with this.


	8. 'What do you mean there's no walls? Every half decent town has walls!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certain units, such as White Mages, who can heal adjacent units open up a whole new plethora of tactical options.
> 
> With the right formation, Healers can dance up and down a defensive line, healing Units where needed and making the enemy bleed for every inch through a slog of nigh-invincible troops, who could only be broken by concentrating onto the weakest unit, then killing them before forcing themselves through the gap.
> 
> That however, leaves the enemy vulnerable to encirclement.

Boots and horseshoes crunched snow underneath as the company advanced through the frozen forest to Snowdin.

 

Frisk had long since tired at once point, to the Player's concern. So thus, the Player summoned a Unit that he could trust would protect the Child.

 

A  **Prophet.**

HP:55/55 XP: 45/110 Illuminates, cures poison, Heals +8

 

And so, the Grand Marshal gently hoisted Frisk up to where they were seated comfortably seated in front of the Prophet's pure white horse.

 

Shining radiantly with holy power, the Prophet rode next to the Marshal at a comfortable pace.

 

It was past a crossroads of ice to the east that the company encountered the Lesser Squire.

 

Growling lowly, the guarddog, with it's dirty matted fur, stepped forth to face the Prophet and the Marshal with Sword and Kite shield in paw.

 

With great effort, the Lesser Squire hefted his stone blade and swung with all it's might towards the Marshal.

 

They missed, and the weight of all it's armaments proved it's downfall when it lost it's balance.

 

Though they desperately tried to swing their arms in hopes of righting themselves, the Lesser squire, dispute all it's endeavors, flopped onto it's back, where it whined pitifully.

 

Again and again they tried to get up, but the weight of it's armor was simply too great.

 

In the end, all the Lesser Squire could do was lay there.

 

At one point, Frisk had somehow gotten down from the Prophet's horse, and had gone to stand over the Lesser Squire, who was pitifully waving it's paws around.

 

After a moment's hesitation, Frisk began to pet it.

 

The Lesser Squire, who at first was confused by this new, non-hostile manner of affection, quickly began panting and almost vibrating in happiness at the Child's touch.

 

After several minutes, (and an elongated neck) Frisk returned to the Prophet's steed, and the company advanced.

 

The Lesser Squire was quiet for a few minutes, then while still laying on it's back, began to roll side to side. 


	9. 'Filthy mongrels! They've no sense of honor!'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In most campaigns in Battle for Wesnoth, the only way Players can access higher tiers of Units is through gaining experience in combat.
> 
> Every unit the Player hires can be recalled through the course of each campaign, for a higher cost that a fresh Unit. 
> 
> In most scenarios it is absolutely critical to keep one's best Units alive and fighting in order to be able to slug through most battles.

Forging onwards towards Snowdin, the Player's company trudged through the darkened woods, their movements slowed by the blanked of snow that each man dragged their feet through.

 

The mounted Units, such as the Cavalrymen and the Prophet, were affected less so. With their only complications being their steeds acting just a bit more unruly, the equines' moods frayed by the cold.

 

The local angst-ridden teens, consisting of Snowdrake, his older brother Chilldrake, and icecap, watched as the column of armored humans marched by, their blades shining like the ice that was a constant in the ever chilly biome.

 

They whispered, slightly fearful that they might draw the humans' unwanted attentions, other than the occasional glare, the group made no aggressive moves, their youthful brashness tempered by Snowdrake's relation of his near-death experience.

 

Oh, Jerry was there as well but, well, noone really cared one way or the other.

 

The column eventually came to rest in the area in which the local entertainment, or as some know it, the Ball Game, resided.

 

Of course, the Nice Cream Guy was here as well, and as the Player noted, he seemed to fold in on himself when the company arrived. The merchant looked little different, save that his clothes were dirtier, his arms and face also bore faint scars.

 

His right ear also seemed to be missing a chunk out of the top, and his posture indicated of one who was simply  _beaten._

 

The Player's eyes narrowed in suspicion as Frisk slid off the Prophet's horse, and approached the meek merchant.

 

As the Child approached, the Nice Cream Guy, or 'Nicey' as he was often called when mocked by his own siblings for his natural meekness, began to shiver in fear.

 

Frisk took slow, meaningful steps towards the cart.

 

Really, it was quite anticlimactic when Frisk simply pointed towards the picture of the Popsicle on the cart's worn side, looking at the merchant unexpectedly.

 

After several moments of non-verbal communication between Frisk and Nicey which boiled down to, ' _Ice Cream?', 'Really? Are you really asking?'_ and,  _'Uh-huh'._ Frisk had gained a treat, and Nicey had gained his first customer, as one could not count the local teens who periodically flipped his cart and slapped him around.

Nicey, as one could imagine, was quite grateful for the Child's patronage.

  
As Frisk sat on a snow-covered log and slowly ate their treat, Nicey slowly settled down next to them, and after several moments of silence, began to speak.

 

He admitted that he'd always wanted to sell his treats after having accidentally made them through a convoluted process of coincidences, but that, coupled with his meek nature, made him a laughing stock among his family, and a punching bag for his siblings.

 

He also admitted that the only reason he was not long since dust was a knack for finding great places to hide, along with a sixth sense for impending danger.

 

Frisk had finished by this point, and scooted over before giving the weary merchant several soft pats on the back, a sentimental gesture that Nicey greatly appreciated.

 

After several more minutes of rest, the company reformed, and Frisk was once again hoisted onto the Prophet's steed.

 

One Puzzle switch latter, and the Marshal, alongside the Prophet and Frisk, were assailed by two Guarddogs wielding  chipped steel axes.

 

The Quarreling Newlyweds.

 

[Dancing Till Her Head Explodes - Alias Conrad Coldwood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frZC8b-gsBY)

 

The Bride struck first, swinging her axe with little care. Though the Marshal was able to avoid the attack, he was nicked by the end of the Groom's swing.

 

_**-15** _

 

The Marshal retaliated with a shot from his crossbow, the bolt lodging itself in the Bride's leg.

 

The Bride could not stand, and with a yelp she collapsed onto her side.

 

The Groom abandoned all pretense of offensive measures upon seeing his beloved injured, and with little hesitation, he used his body to shield hers.

 

The Player was moved by this, and was again surprised when Frisk seemed to beg to let them be.

 

The Player saved before making his decision, and his Units broke away and gave the Lovers distance, before marching around them towards the Town.

 

The Newlyweds seemed immensely grateful by this display of Mercy. And the Groom helped to nurse the Bride's wound as the company surrounded them with foreign smells of polish and the clanking of steel. 

 


	10. 'I have run out of creative titles.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might as well update, I suppose. 
> 
> Will possibly update my other stories, but don't get your hopes up.

The Ice Bridge was not much of an obstacle. Even before the Grand Marshall could even step too far, Frisk had, with speed not indicative of their small stature, solved it in record time. Fast enough that the Player's Company had only just come to a stop before the Ice Bridge extended.

 

With an almost practiced ease, the small child gracefully slid across, showing no hesitation. 

 

The Player was not one to dally too long, and ordered the Company to cross. And so, the constant scratch of metal on ice was heard for a consistently short time as the Company crossed in a fairly orderly manner. Even the Horses made it across with relatively little trouble. Now, however, the Player could no longer see Frisk. The Player sighed, put a hand to the side of his head, and nursed a growing headache as the Company was ordered forward.

 

The Child was located rather quickly, all things considered. As the Company, Arms clanging together as they marched, moved forward, Frisk seemed rather occupied looking through a number of rather miserable looking piles of snow. The Player took note of the bare and pitiful doghouse, the planks that made up the tiny structure wrought with terrible rot and decay.

 

There a small gasp, and the jingling of metal heralded the Child's find of a small bag of coins. They tucked it with almost unnecessary care into one of their pockets. The Mage of Light, cloaked in a halo of pure white light, gently held his hand out to the child, silently begging that they continue.

 

Frisk took the old Mage's hand with the soft touch of one who holds the most fragile of glass figures. Of course, as they made to leave, a small, dirty head popped out of the last miserable pile of snow. The visage of a small, scarred pup, a terrible slash long improperly healed has robbed them of an eye. As the Company turns it's attentions to the small thing, Frisk, not intimidated the least, makes to reach out to it. 

 

The small pup recoils, and barks in a high pitch and at rapid pace. And the ground begins to shake slightly. The Company raises their arms, and the small, scarred pup is elevated suddenly, their lower body now encased in a large, yet poorly proportioned set of Iron armor black as night, a dark spear clutched in one of it's massive gauntlets.

 

The Scarred Pup barrels forth!

 

Despite a magical spear attack aimed at the only Soul present, that of the child, the Mage of Light selflessly pushes them behind himself taking the painful attack onto his own body.

 

Wounded, the Mage falls to his knees, barely holding himself upright by clutching his holy staff, that so shines with radiant light. Frisk, shocked, quickly rushes to his side, seemingly beginning to encourage the Mage to his feet.

 

Despite this compassionate scene, the Scarred Pup only growls, and readies another attack. The Grand Marshall however, intercepts the Pup's more Physical downwards swing of it's Black Spear with his own Steel blade. Several arrows glance off the Scarred Pup's tough armor, doing no damage, and several others miss.

 

The horsemen and front-liners are stuck in the congested space, the Company's numbers against them. They cannot reach the Child and the Marshall.

 

As the Scarred Pup and Grand Marshall are at a standstill of strength, a lowly Mage desperately swings his short magic staff at the back of the massive set of armor's knee.

 

Almost instantly, the Scarred Pup yelps as it buckles forward, the Marshall barely manages to avoid being crushed by the armor.

 

With enough weight to cause a small cloud of frost to fly, the armor lands face down, and the Scarred Pup is sent Snout over Tail as they tumble out of the armor.

 

Their true size is quite diminutive, and as the Scarred Pup rapidly shakes his head, it comes too and sees it in a ring of armed Humans. Instantly the yapping starts up again, at a blinding speed, one could almost imagine that it was cursing at them.

 

Then, with a scarred yelp, the Scarred Pup was snatched up from behind, by two small, childlike arms.

 

Without hesitation, Frisk gave a small kiss on top of the Pup's head. The small thing froze the moment it happened, for a moment, it was utterly quiet, as if it couldn't comprehend what it had received. Slowly Frisk began to pet the Scarred Pup's head.

 

It began to whine, but not in discomfort or pain, no, for the Scarred Pup started to push it's head into Frisk's petting hand, as if it were a freezing  man desperate for warmth.

 

After a few minutes of this, during which the Company calmed and reorganized, and the Mage of Light healed his wounds, the pup slowly fell asleep under Frisk's affections. Frisk could feel the little Pup's heartbeat as it snoozed. With utmost care, they cradle the young pup in their arms.

 

Slowly, the Company moves forward, steel boots and horseshoes beating in rhythm.

 

As one, the Company halts, before them is what seems to be a long, yet simple wooden bridge.

 

The Player sneers, for at the other end are two figures that he detests.

 

It is, of course, the Cruel Judge and the Vain Boneguard.


End file.
